The briefing room is filling quickly.
Maps are projected across the far wall, laptops hum across the long table, and a dozen different agencies are settling into their seats as the operation prepares to start.
I’m reviewing the floor plan when the door opens again.
A broad-shouldered man in a police command jacket strides in, scanning the room with the focused confidence of someone used to running scenes.
The local police chief.
He stops near the center of the room and looks around.
“Alright,” he says, clapping his hands once. “Where’s Reid?”
I glance up.
“That would be me,” I reply politely.
His face immediately lights up.
“Well I’ll be damned.”
He walks straight toward me and grabs my hand in a firm shake.
“Chief Reid,” he says with clear enthusiasm. “I’ve heard amazing things about you.”
Morgan, leaning against the table beside me, suddenly goes very still.
The chief keeps talking.
“Marine Raider, right?”
My mouth opens slightly.
“I—”
“Two tours in Iraq,” he continues proudly. “Scout sniper.”
He gestures toward me like he’s just met a long-lost brother.
“Hell of a résumé.”
Morgan turns slowly toward Prentiss.
Prentiss presses her lips together.
Rossi looks down at his coffee cup.
The chief keeps going.
“Nice to finally meet someone who understands how tactical operations actually work.”
I attempt to speak again.
“Actually—”
“I’ve worked with Raiders before,” he says, cutting me off again. “Best operators I’ve ever seen.”
He nods approvingly.
“Command presence too. That’s what I keep hearing about you.”
Morgan quietly mutters under his breath.
“Oh no.”
The chief claps me on the shoulder.
“Good to see someone with the right background running HRT.”
I inhale slowly.
“Yes, about that—”
“And the sniper qualifications?” he continues. “Impressive stuff.”
I raise a hand slightly.
“Sir.”
He pauses.
“Yes?”
I offer a polite smile.
“I believe there’s been a misunderstanding.”
His eyebrows lift.
“Oh?”
“Yes.”
I gesture lightly toward myself.
“I am Dr. Spencer Reid with the Behavioral Analysis Unit.”
The chief nods once.
“Right, right.”
Then he waves dismissively.
“No need to be modest.”
I blink.
“…I’m not.”
He laughs.
“Come on now.”
Morgan turns completely away from the table.
Prentiss is staring at the floor.
Rossi is trying very hard not to smile.
The chief continues.
“I’m talking about the Marine Raider. The Unit Chief. Reid.”
I nod once.
“Yes.”
Then I say very calmly,
“You’re talking about my wife.”
The chief stops.
“…What?”
“You’re referring to Chief Cynthia Reid.”
The room goes quiet.
“She’s the Marine Raider,” I explain.
“She commands the Hostage Rescue Team.”
The chief stares at me.
“…No.”
“Yes.”
He gestures vaguely toward me.
“But—”
“I’m the profiler, with the PhDs.”
Another beat passes.
Across the room Morgan whispers to Prentiss,
“Here we go.”
The chief shakes his head slowly.
“No, no, I’m talking about the Unit Chief Reid. The Marine.”
I nod again.
“Yes.”
“That’s my Wife.”
Silence spreads across the briefing room.
At that exact moment the door opens behind him.
Heavy boots step inside.
The quiet mechanical sounds of tactical gear shift through the room.
I glance toward the doorway.
Then I lift a hand and point.
“There she is.”
The chief slowly turns around.
Chief Cynthia Reid walks into the briefing room in full tactical kit, helmet clipped to her vest, rifle slung across her chest as she scans the room with calm authority.
The entire atmosphere shifts the moment she enters.
The room shifts the moment Chief Reid walks in. Conversations stall mid-sentence. Several agents instinctively straighten, shoulders squaring as if they’ve just been called to attention. She moves with the quiet certainty of someone used to command— gear balanced perfectly across her frame. Her head tilts slightly as she surveys the room, posture steady, shoulders squared with calm authority.
Radios quiet slightly.
Command presence fills the space.
I look back at the police chief.
A small smile tugs at my mouth.
“…See that's my Wife”